Tom

This is Tom. Tom has been a good friend of Scott's and mine for a few years now. And, up until recently, I guess technically I was Tom's boss. True to Tom's generous nature, after my plans to pry my burned-out self out of the App House head buyer's chair became official, Tom concocted an all-expenses paid climbing trip to the Wind River range that coincided nicely with the end of my term.

The trip to the Winds was super. Two other State College characters also came along, and they were super as well. But I'll talk about those guys later.

Tom likes to suffer. I've heard him talk about how much he likes to suffer, particularly how much he likes to suffer under a really heavy pack, many many times. I kind of believed him, but I also thought there was a small chance that he was full of shit. Apparently, that's not the case.

Tom (suffering mightily under approximately 95lbs of Cheeze-its, Wild Turkey, Double Stuf Oreos, and mountaineering gear): "I think. . . .(deep breaths). . . that when God made me. . . (deep breaths and small groan). . . he had . . . chess player in mind."

Tom is about 6' and weighs 135 lbs. 95lbs is 70% of Tom's body weight.

Tom really likes heavy metal and hair bands. If the band's still together, Tom probably doesn't like them.

Tom actually makes those old-person wrap-around sun protection Star Wars-type over-glasses look good.

Tom is a force on the karaoke floor. He goes well with Billy Idol and Guns and Roses.

Tom is wicked generous. If I didn't know him so well, I'd be suspicious. Tom paid for 100% of the gas to get us to Wyoming, coaxed a free pair of mountaineering boots out of Asolo for yours truly, and, on a day when three of us monkeys were slogging up Gannett, transported 85lbs of gear to our next camp so we could spend the next day frolicking under feather-light 50lb packs. To repay Tom, I ran out of gas in the most desolate stretch of Wyoming, developed a snoring problem while sharing his tent, kicked him in the face a few times, and left him with a big pile of unfinished work at App House.

Tom suffers while maintaining a supernaturally good attitude. If I didn't know he was so smart, I'd think there was something wrong with Tom's head.

Tom is single. He's a homeowner and has a sweet job as the new head buyer at App House. Ladies, contact me for details and I'll see about booking some time with Tom. Qualified applicants only. Ability to carry a heavy pack a must.

Sad day

Luther was a wonderful, stubborn, enormous, exceedingly flatulent, exceptionally good-natured bouvier des flanders. He loved bunny poo, kielbasa, and taking up vast amounts of floor space during his epic naps. Famous for his uncanny gorilla stare and profound attachment to his little herd of people, he will be sorely missed

Tropical Storm Hanna

Surf's looking good. A little heavy on the inside. . .

Eureka

It finally happened. I get it. I understand why people quit their jobs over this whole thing. Scott and I woke up for our usual sunrise session, and a slow walk down the beach revealed the kind of waves I had started to think were made-up stories generated to get me into the watery mosh pit for the enjoyment of the peanut gallery on the porch. Kind, friendly, and glassy with crumbly whitewater breaks. I caught some waves. I actually stood up on couple. I think what really did it for me was the fact that every surfing member of the house was out that morning, also having a funhog day, yelling every time somebody got up and generally having a purely stoked romp in the waves. It's one thing to have a really good session and enjoy some surfing progress, but when I'm in the midst of a bunch of my friends on a morning like that, the joy is amplified and living feels so good it hurts.

Surfing is Harder than Cimbing

About two weeks ago, I remember thinking that climbing was really hard. I still believe that it is. However, surfing, that almost overly mythologized soul-sport that my little-girl self imagined I was born to conquer, is beating me so thoroughly that I'm considering throwing in the towel. So to speak.

Scott and I load our free plastic surfboard (compliments of Michal Stewart), three bicycles, and not nearly enough sunscreen into our Camry and drive a fuel-efficient 60mph down to Bogue Banks, NC. We scoop our good friend Nick at the airport and plunge into a seven day binge on poshness at an extravagant beachfront house with a psyched group of surfers.

The surf is big. Big and burly with steep faces and gnashing roiling whitewater jaws of turbulent doom. My quietly resolved husband, who until recently has been a bit nervous around open water, charges into the foamy maw and embarks on an almost supernaturally steep learning curve that, within days, deposits him into a happy land populated with wave after wave of long face rides on dark green faces. He is humbly grateful for this gift.

I am a teeny bit jealous and stunned at my lack of competence. Most upsetting is the fear. I have never been apprehensive swimming in big waves or turbulent ocean, but as soon as I'm belly-down on a surfboard I am afraid. So I don't commit. I only pretend to try hard to catch waves, stubbornly remembering the sickening plummet over the front of my board to the bottom of the ocean, waiting for the surfboard to stop spinning above my head and start dragging me by the ankle in the direction of the shore. I only halfheartedly paddle into the break. I turtle roll and turtle roll in the impact zone until I'm exhausted, telling myself I'm too nervous to paddle past the breaking waves to the serenity of the big green swells. I want the joy that's bundled with this sport so bad but I'm too lazy to stop pouting, turn on the fierce grin, and start charging.

Good thing there's so much beauty around me. Enough to penetrate my entitled little sulk. I can sit on the porch at sunrise and watch the dolphins surf in the big waves that scare me. And see the pelicans fly overhead in gorgeous silent formation with their ironic prehistoric smiles. I know I'm lucky girl. A lucky chicken girl with great friends and eyes that can love the world around me.